Some people have a wonderful way of always speaking a
kind word or doing a kind act, at the right time—just
when it is most needed and will do the greatest good. No matter when we meet
them, they seem, as by some unfailing inspiration, to understand our mood
and to have something precisely suited to it—a bit of sunshine for
our gloom; a word of cheer for our disheartenment; a gentle but never
offensive reminder of duty—if we are growing remiss or neglectful; an
impulse to activity—if our zeal is flagging; or a word of generous
commendation and delicate praise—if we are weary and overwrought.

There is a wondrous power in fitness. A kindness
that, standing apart from its occasion, seems utterly insignificant, takes
on importance and assumes an inestimable value, because of its
opportuneness. It multiplies one's usefulness a hundredfold, a
thousand-fold, to know how to speak the right word, or do the right
thing—just at the right moment and in the right way.

Many people with the very best motives and intentions,
and with truly large capacity for doing good—almost utterly fail of
usefulness and throw their lives away—because they lack this gift of tact.
They perform their kindest deeds in such an inappropriate way as to
rob them of nearly all their power to comfort or cheer. They always come
a few minutes too late to be helpful. They speak the wrong word,
giving pain—when they wanted to give pleasure. They are always making
allusions to themes—on which no word should be spoken. They are ever
touching sensitive spots. When they enter a home of sorrow, drawn by the
truest sympathy—they are almost sure to make tender hearts bleed the
more—by some lack of fitness in word or act. They are continually
hurting the feelings of their friends, offending nearly every person
they meet and leaving frowns and tears in their path. Everyone gives them
credit for honesty of intention, and yet their efforts to do good mostly
come to naught—or even result in harm!

The sad part of it all is that their motives are
good, and their hearts full of benevolent desires. Their lives are
failures because they lack the proper touch and do not know in what
manner to do the things they resolve to do.

Others may not have one whit more sincere or earnest
desire to be useful. Their interest in people may be no truer, their
sympathy no deeper, their love no warmer. They may have less—rather than
more natural power, to give help. Yet because of their peculiar and gentle
tact—they scatter gladness all about them and are ever performing sweet
ministries of good. Their suggestions of kindness do not come to them as
after-thoughts, when it is too late to render any help. They do not blunder
into all sorts of cruelty, when they try to alleviate sorrow. They come
opportunely, like God's angels. Their thoughtfulness seems
intuitively to understand just what will be the best word to
speak, or the kindest and fittest thing to do!

When they are guests in a home, they have a way of
showing a grateful appreciation of the favors and attentions bestowed upon
them, and yet in so delicate a way as never to appear to flatter. When they
feel it necessary to remind another of some remissness in duty, they do it
so gently as not to lose the friend—but to draw him all the closer. They
possess the art of manifesting an interest—not fake—but sincere—in
each one they meet, and succeed in leaving a pleasant impression and a
gracious influence upon all.

There are some who regard 'tact' as insincerity
or hypocrisy. They boast of their own honesty, which never
tries to disguise a dislike for a person, which bluntly criticizes another's
faults even at the price of his friendship. They believe in truth—in
all its bare ruggedness, no matter how much pain it may give; and condemn
all that thoughtful tact which regards human feelings and tries to speak the
truth in such a way that it may not wound and estrange.

They love to speak the 'woe' against those of whom all
men speak well, and that other saying of our Lord's—that he had not come to
send peace—but a sword. Their favorite prophet is Elijah, and they
refer often to the biblical condemnation of certain who prophesied
smooth things! They mistake bluntness for sincerity. In
the name of candor—they employ sarcasm, and sharp and bitter
attack on people. When others are grieved or hurt or insulted, they answer,
"I am a blunt man; I say what I mean, and you must excuse me!"

Frankness is to be honored—but this is not frankness; it
is impertinence, cruel unkindness, the outbreak of bad nature in him who
speaks; which, instead of doing good, works only harm!

A true appreciation of the story of the teachings of the
gospel, will reveal the fact that our Lord himself exercised the most
beautiful and thoughtful tact in all his mingling among the people!
He was utterly incapable of rudeness. He never needlessly spoke a
harsh word. He never gave needless pain to a sensitive heart. He
was most considerate of human weakness. He was most gentle toward all human
sorrow. He never suppressed the truth—but he uttered it always in love. Even
the terrible woes he pronounced against unbelief and hypocrisy I do not
believe were spoken in the tones of thunder, trembling with rage which men
impart to their anathemas. I think we must read them in the light of his
tears over the city of his love, which had rejected him, pulsing and
tremulous with divine and sorrowing tenderness.

His whole life tells of most considerate thoughtfulness.
He had a wondrous reverence for human life. Every scrap of humanity was
sacred and precious in his eyes. He bore himself always in the attitude of
tenderest regard for everyone. How could it be otherwise, since he saw in
everyone a lost being, whom by love he might win and rescue; or whom by a
harsh word, he might drive forever beyond hope? He never spoke brusquely, or
made truth cruel. He saw in every man and woman enough of sadness to soften
the very tones of his speech and to produce feelings of ineffable tenderness
in him. He moved about striving to impart to everyone, some comfort or help.

If we can but realize, even in the feeblest way, the
feeling of Christ toward men—our bluntness and rudeness will
soon change to gentleness. And this is true tact. It is infinitely
removed from cunning. Cunning is insincere. It flatters and practices
all the arts of deception. It professes a friendship and interest which it
does not feel. It seeks only to promote its own ends. It is selfish at the
core, and utterly wretched and debasing.

True tact—is sanctified common sense. It is Christian
love doing its proper and legitimate work. It is that wisdom which our Lord
commended so heartily to the disciples as they went out among enemies and
into a hostile world. It is at the same time as harmless as a dove.
No one can read the New Testament thoughtfully, without seeing how love
moves everywhere as the queen of all the graces. Truth is
everywhere clothed in the warm and radiant beauty of charity. Positive,
strong and mighty, it is ever gentle as the touch of a child's finger.
Someone has said that whoever makes truth unpleasant, commits high treason
against virtue. The remark needs a qualification. There are unpleasant
truths that must cause pain when faithfully spoken. Yet truth itself is
always lovely, and we are not loyal to it when we present it in any way that
will make it appear repulsive.

Christian tact is wise and loving thoughtfulness. It
is that charity which is wisely gentle to all, which bears all things, which
seeks not her own, which thinks no evil. It has an instinctive desire to
avoid giving pain. It seeks to please all men for their good. It knows very
well, that the surest way not to do men good, is to antagonize them
and excite their opposition and enmity; therefore, as far as possible, it
avoids all direct attack upon the life and opinions of others. It shows
respect for the views of those who differ in sentiment or belief.

A wise writer has said, "When we would show anyone that
he is mistaken, our best course is to observe on what side he
considers the subject—for his view of it is generally right, on his side—and
admit to him that he is right so far. He will be satisfied with this
acknowledgment that he was not wrong in his judgment, though inadvertent in
not looking at the whole of the case." How much wiser and more
effective this method, than that of violently assaulting the position of one
who differs from us, as if we were infallible—and he and his opinions, were
worthy only of our contempt! We can accomplish by indirection, what we could
never do by direct methods.

In no class of work is this wise tact so much
needed, as in trying to lead men to Christ. There is somewhere a 'key to
every heart', and yet there are good and earnest men, to whom no heart
opens. They have zeal without knowledge. Sanctified tact shows its
skill in a thousand little ways, which no rules can mark out—but
which win hearts and find acceptance for the living truth, and for the
wondrous love of Christ. I believe it will be seen in the end, that many
lives which might have been saved by the gentle methods which love
teaches—have drifted away from Christ and been lost, through the unwisdom of
workers.

Tact has a wonderful power in smoothing out tangled
affairs. A pastor, with it, will harmonize a church composed of
most discordant elements, and prevent a thousand strifes and quarrels, by
saying the right word at the right time—and by quietly and
wisely setting other influences to work to neutralize the discordant
tendencies. A teacher possessed of this gift, can control the most
unruly pupils and disarm mischief of its power to annoy and disturb the
peace. In the home it is a most indispensable oil. Quiet tact
will always have the soft word, ready to speak in time to turn away anger.
It knows how to avoid unsafe ground. It can put all parties into a good
humor, when there is danger of difference or clashing. It is silent—when
silence is better than speech.

Nothing else has so much to do with the success or
failure of men in usefulness, as the possession or non-possession of tact.
A man with great gifts and learning accomplishes nothing; while another,
with not one-half of his natural powers or acquirements, far outstrips him
in practical life. The difference lies in tact—in knowing the art of
doing things. We need more than brains, and erudition. The talent of all
which tells most effectively in life—is that which teaches us how to use the
power we have. One person will do more good without learning—than another
with his brain full of the knowledge of the ages.

Tact is no doubt largely a natural endowment—but
it is also partly an art, and can be cultivated. The awkward man who
is always swinging himself against someone, or treading down some tender
flower—may acquire something of the grace of easy carriage. The
harsh, brusque man may get a softer heart, and with it a softer manner. The
man who is always saying the wrong word and paining someone, may at least
learn to be silent on doubtful occasions. There is no better way to
acquire this wonder-working tact—than by becoming filled with the
spirit of Christ. Warm love in the heart for all men, unselfish, thoughtful,
kind—will always find some beautiful way to perform its beneficent
ministries.

A delicate kindness moves us—more than the
sublimest exhibition of power. Gentleness is mightier than noise
or force. The tiny flower growing high up on the cold, rugged
mountain, amid ice and snow, impresses the beholder more than the great
piles of granite that tower to the clouds. The soft shining of the sun
can do more than the rude wintry blast—to make men unfasten their
heavy garments and open their hearts to the influences of good.